


Mirrors and Windows

by Catopotato_22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Parenting, Brotherly Love, Child Neglect, Coming of Age, Eating Disorders, Explicit Language, Food Issues, Gen, High School, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester’s A+ parenting, Pre-Canon, Protective Dean Winchester, Puberty, Sam Winchester Has an Eating Disorder, Suicidal Thoughts, Verbal Abuse, Vomiting, When I said brotherly love I didn’t mean it like that it’s not fucking wincest okay, public school, shitty parents shitty school shitty life, what a great combo for a healthy and mentally stable teen!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22648369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catopotato_22/pseuds/Catopotato_22
Summary: What do you get when you cross a self destructive lifestyle with a society that doesn’t care about the wellbeing of its children? Teenagers With Issues!Sam Winchester is only 14, and already falls into that category, and his downward spiral into an eating disorder isn’t helped by his father, or the unstable home life of empty pockets and empty stomachs.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 92





	1. The Problem

Sam Winchester was a normal kid, on the outside. His home life was strange, to say the least, but if you saw him walk down the street, you wouldn’t give him a second glance. He was fourteen, on the tall side, and fairly fit. On the outside, he was perfectly average. Sam, however, disagreed. 

It started with the comments. Sam was sitting in the back of the Impala, Dean was sitting shotgun while their dad drove. The engine purred down the road as they chatted over the music pouring from the radio. Dean snacked out of a bag of M&Ms he supposedly paid for, while John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, keeping time with the song. This was one of their good moments. But then Sammy had to go ruin it.

“Dad, when will I get to go hunting?” He leaned up to the front of the car and let his chin rest on the back of Dean’s seat. “And not just wait in the car, actually hunting.”

John kept his eyes glued on the road. “When you’re older.” 

Sam slumped back into his seat. “Why?” 

“Because you’ll be more mature.”

“Obviously,” Sam grumbled and rolled his eyes, then checked the mirror to see if his dad caught him. He didn’t, thankfully. 

“You can’t hunt yet because maybe when you’re older you’ll have a better build for it. A bit less chub, you know?” John laughed. “It makes you seem a little less snackable to any stray vamps or werewolves.”

Dean chuckled and reached around to offer Sam an M&M. “Want one?” 

“Nah.” He shook his head.

“One time only offer.” Dean shook the bag. “Going once, going twice?”

Sam pushed his hand away. “I’m fine.”

“Sold, to the fine young gentleman sitting shotgun.” Dean shrugged and turned back around. 

Sam tucked his legs up to his chest and turned his head to stare out the window. His stomach felt like it was twisting in knots. The telephone lines outside the window flew past as the black car shot across the highway. We tend not to see the inside of the cars that pass us on roads, but when we do, it’s a little slice of someone else’s life. But it’s only half the story. An outsider would see a father and his two teenage sons, the younger one sulking in the back, but had that outsider sat in the car with them, they might have noticed the beginning of Sam’s problem.


	2. (BABY) FAT

A month later, Dean flopped onto the motel bed, listening to the springs creak. Sam sat on the floor, going through a battered history textbook and doing his homework.

“Hey Dean, did Dad ever tell you to get less chubby before you went on your first hunt?” He looked over at his brother, who was trying and failing to do a handstand on the rickety old bed. 

“I wasn’t chubby to begin with, so, no.” He strained as he flailed his legs in the air in an effort to balance, then let them fall back on the bed. “What makes you say that?”

“Remember a while ago, I asked if I could hunt, Dad said I had to be less flabby?” Sam chewed his lip, pressing his fingers around his wrist.

“Why do you even remember that? That was forever ago. And it’s really dumb.” He rolled over to sit upright. “Bobby still hunts, he’s not exactly a supermodel, neither is Dad, if we’re being honest.”

“But we’re young,” Sam insisted, “I don’t have a reason to be chubby.”

“Well Sammy, I don’t know if you know this, but baby fat is a thing.” Dean scoffed. 

“Why don’t you have baby fat?” 

“‘Cause I’m not a baby.”

“I’m not a baby!” Sam protested. 

“Yeah, but you’re a freshman, I’m a senior. You’re right out of middle school, I’m almost an adult.” Dean stood up. “There’s a huge difference.”

“None of the other freshman have baby fat. I’m to old to say it’ll go away.” Sam folded his arms. “I’m probably gonna stay this way forever.” 

“Maybe fourteen year olds here are just slimmer.” He shrugged. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date at the movies with the hottest chick at our new school.”

“See? You get girls, I don’t. Baby fat makes all the difference.” Sam huffed.

“Girls? Is this what I’m hearing? Is little Sammy Winchester finally coming to me for advice about girls?” Dean’s eyes lit up. “Who is she?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. Nobody. Go on your stupid date already, would you?”

Dean put on a sickly sweet accent, mocking some overbearing mother they didn’t have, “Alrighty, feel free to ask me for advice, kiddo. First love can be-“

“Go!” Sam shooed him away.

“My baby’s all grown up!” Dean clutched his heart and opened the door as he shouted. “Puberty is a very challenging time! You’re going to want to start experimenting, and-”

“Your date is waiting!” Sam shouted back.

“Bitch!” Dean swung the door closed. 

“Jerk!” Sam got up and locked it behind him. 

He tugged at his shirt and walked over to the bathroom. He leaned his back against the wall across from the bathroom mirror, and felt the cool beige tiles on his bare feet. He scowled back at himself in the mirror. He held up his wrist, and squeezed his fingers around it. 

“Chubby.” He looked down at himself with contempt. “I can’t hunt like this. I look like a windigo chow.”

He poked into his side, glaring at himself. “Goodbye, baby fat.”

* * *

The Winchesters has switched schools again. Dean slunk around his new school’s library with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He’d only been at the school for a few days, but had earned the reputation that said he had no business hanging out in the library, unless it was during detention. He crept around the shelves, glancing furtively over his shoulder. He snatched up a random book, and then waltzed over to the section he wanted to go to. This school was fairly progressive, they should have the book Dean needed. He scanned the shelf, then plucked the book off. He darted into a space between two shelves and sat down in the little cove, resting his head on the shelf. He opened the random book, and put the other one inside, creating the illusion he was reading the outside book. He cringed at the title of the book he was really reading: “What’s Happening in my Pants? The Puberty Book for Boys.” He flipped through the table of contents, and gritted his teeth. There was “Why I Stink So Bad” and “When I Woke Up This Morning...” “The Hair Down There” and all sorts of awkward, embarrassing titles, but nothing on baby fat, and nothing on fitness. He grumbled and stood up, going back to haphazardly shove the book back in its place.

He took a deep breath, and stared over at the bright pink spine of the next book. It’s stars and swirls taunted him with viscously eye-catching colors. He steeled himself and snatched it off the shelf, shoving it into his false cover book. The title mocked him with a neon-hued rallying cry of “Boobs, Bras, Boys and Body Changes: Growing Up for Girls.”

“Subtlety is key, ladies,” he said to himself, barely above a whisper. “How many tween girls have had the humiliation of checking this out?”

He tucked it in the book, pulling his knees close to his chest. He scanned the table of contents. sandwiched between “Periods” and “Acne” was the section on body changes. 

“Around your age, girls will start to change. Your hips will get wider, your blah blah blah,” Dean read in his head, “Blah blah blah, diets! Baby fat doesn’t wear off for longer then you think. It can last up to age 14, and even longer for boys. Girls will start feeling pressure to be slim and pretty at young ages, influenced by models, the media and even other girls at school. Some girls will decide to go on diets that may not be healthy. She might cut out meals or certain food groups, which brings us to a scary topic. Eating disorders.”

The word travelled from Dean’s brain to the pit of his stomach, twisting and turning it into sick little knots, like that ice-cold feeling of the roller coaster dropping, or missing the last step on the stairs. Eating disorder. 

“Someone with an eating disorder might eat less, not eat at all, or even make herself throw up after eating. If you know someone with an eating disorder, talk to a parent or school counselor to see what you can do to help her.” 

“So Dad’s out of the question,” Dean rolled his eyes and thought, “And so are counselors. This is my issue.”

He stood up, taking both books to check them out. He set them on the student helper’s desk for her to check out. She looked up at him in surprise. 

“You’re Dean Winchester, right?” She whispered. “New kid?”

“Yep, that’s me.” Dean was always ‘the new kid.’ He’d considered just making it his nickname, to make it easy for himself.

She looked through the book titles, “Okay, you’re checking out ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People’ and- uh-“ 

“Yeah, my little sister’s school library doesn’t have that one.” He lied easily. 

“Oh yeah, McKinley Middle is stricter about that, you know how sixth graders can be.” She smiled at him. 

Dean anxiously tapped his feet, checking over his shoulder. “Yeah, kids, right?”

She checked the books out to him and he shoved them in his backpack. 

“Thanks, uh-“

“Abigail.” She moved her hair off her shoulder and showed him the library assistant name tag clipped to her pink cardigan. 

“Thanks Abigail.” He flashed her a grin and slipped out of the library, hoping not to get noticed.

* * *

Sam stood in the bathroom, and pulled a flannel over his shoulders. It slipped down off of him and fell to his elbows. Maybe it was too big. He set it down on the bathroom counter and pulled a hoodie on instead. He ran a hand through his hair, which seemed so much more dull and brittle these days. Over the past two weeks, he’d lost a lot of weight, he wasn’t sure how much, because the bathroom at the motel didn’t have a scale. He looked in the mirror and licked his lips. He still felt like crap, and still felt chubby. 

Outside, Dean snuck another look at the pink book. He hadn’t thought much of it lately, until yesterday. Sam went to school without breakfast, which was normal for them, but then went missing at lunch, and refused to eat Winchester Surprise at dinner, saying he’d eaten already. Sam might not like junk food these days, but you can’t say no to Winchester Surprise. It wasn’t even made with gross substitutes for the meat this time. Dean worked damn hard to make it, too.

Dean felt that ice-cold feeling in his gut again, and the words “eating disorder” rattled around his brain. Sam seemed to spend a lot of time in the bathroom these days. Dean shoved the book into his school bag, and went outside to talk to his dad. 

“Hey, do you ever worry about Sammy?” Dean got into the shotgun seat. 

“Yeah, I worry he’ll be late for school.” John grumbled, about to honk the horn of the Impala to rudely awaken the neighbors and his son.

“Wait! I want to talk to you- alone.” Dean held out his hand to stop his dad. “I’m worried about Sam.”

“You’re always worried about Sam. And you should be.” John cautioned, “Worry keeps you safe.” 

“No, Dad, I think he’s sick.” Dean tapped his hands on the dashboard anxiously. 

“Sick?”

“He hasn’t been eating lately.”

“What do you mean, he hasn’t been eating? He’s got to be eating a little.” John laughed. “That’s how humans survive.”

“Exactly.” 

“You think he’s not human? Is he possessed or something?” John finally seemed to reflect the agitation Dean felt. 

“Ugh, no. I think he might be anorexic or bulimic or something.” 

“Anorexic? Who’s he trying to look like? Those girls from ‘Friends’ I keep hearing about?” He laughed again. “Some fucking model?”

“No, I don’t know- I don’t really care, I’m scared he could get really sick, or even die.” Dean glared at his father. “You’re not taking me seriously, are you?” 

“I’ll take you seriously when you’re an adult.”

“I’m trying to get Sam to survive long enough to be an adult.” 

“So am I, but I’m more worried about demons than some bullshit about Sam wanting to be Janet Anderson, or whatever that actress’s name is.” He scoffed, throwing up his hands. 

“Jennifer Anniston.” Dean mumbled. “But that’s not the point.”

John sighed and scowled. “Dean, you’re overreacting. When I was a kid, if I didn’t finish my food, your grandmother would tell me stories of how she and my aunts and uncles went days without food. Her family lived off of scraps.”

“That was the Great Depression, Dad!” Dean flung up his hands angrily, hitting the top of the car. “She didn’t have a choice!”

“Kids these days are ungrateful. At least they wanted to eat back then.” John scoffed. 

“Are you listening to what I’m telling you? Your son is starving himself!” Dean raised his voice a little too loud. 

“Don’t use that tone with me. You’re overreacting!” John boomed back. 

“Ugh! You don’t ever listen!” Dean yelled. “Why can’t you just listen to me?”

The two broke into a bout of screaming and shouting at each other while Sam ran out from the bathroom with his bag. He opened the door to catch a few snippets of “ungrateful,” and “Phoebe...” “...starve,” “neglect,” “grandma,” “overreact,” and “dumbass,” and a very creative and offensive string of expletives from Dean that impressed Sam quite a bit. He tried to quietly shut the door once he got in the back, but it slipped and slammed shut. Dean stopped yelling and faced forward, looking straight out the window, ignoring John. 

“Who’s Phoebe, and why are we arguing about her?” Sam tried to break the tension.

“Dean has ‘politely’ informed me that Phoebe, Mona and Rachel are the girls from ‘Friends’ who’s names I can’t remember.” 

“It’s Monica, actually.” Sam corrected his father timidly, even though he knew that probably wasn’t why they were shouting. “Not Mona.” 

Dean cracked a little smirk, glancing over at his dad.

“It doesn’t matter anyways. In 20 years, that damn show will be as unimportant as this conversation.” John put in a cassette and started the car, signaling the end of the argument.

Despite the music filtering through the small speakers in the car, a weighted silence sunk into the worn leather seats of the car.

Dean stretched around in his seat. “Hey, did you get breakfast this morning?”

Sam hesitated, calculating a response. He sighed wearily as he replied, “No, I’ll just get food at lunch.”

“Do you need lunch money?” 

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah I’m sure. If I wasn’t sure, I would’ve said so.”

“I’m just trying to help, damn.”

“Dean, watch your language.” John grumbled. “I don’t want your brother picking up that kind of crap from you.”

“What?! He’s the one being rude.” He scoffed. “And you just said ‘crap.’”

“‘Crap’ isn’t as bad as ‘damn,’ but let’s not get into ranking swear words.”

“Where does ‘fuck’ fall in that ranking?” Sam smirked. “And shit?”

“He’s getting that from you, Dean.”

“No he’s not!” Dean protested. “He’s just being a little son of a bitch-“

Sam raised his eyebrows, pressing his lips together in a self-satisfies grin. “Dad, Dean’s swearing.”

“I swear, he’s doing that just to f- mess with me. ‘Cause he sucks.”

“Is ‘sucks’ a bad word?”

“Only if you’re a baby.” 

“I’m not a baby!”

“I never said you were, quit twisting my words around.”

“You called me a baby.”

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did.”

Dean leaned out of his seat to face his brother. “I did not.”

“You did too.” He countered, folding his arms.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not!”

“Did too-oo!”

“I did not!”

“You  so did too!”

They went on like this, childishly bantering and laughing, until John honked the horn and glared at the two of them. 

“Both of you,  knock it off! ” He shouted. “Dean, get back in your seat, you’re too young to act like this. If I hear one more peep from either of you, I will stop this car, right in the middle of the road, and you’ll walk the rest of the way to school.” 

They blinked in stunned silence. Dean slipped back into his seat. 

“Dean, you’ve got to set a good example for your brother. If you act like a kid now, he’ll act like that when he’s your age.”

Dean looked at his lap, tapped his fingers and nodded guiltily. His father gently smacked his arm and looked at him, waiting for confirmation.

“Sorry.” He murmured. 

“Sorry,  sir .” 

“I’m your son, I don’t see why you should call me sir.” A smirk spread across his lips as Sam muted a laugh. 

“I’m gonna pull over, and you’re walking the rest of the way.” John slowed down slightly. 

“Dude, you’re so screwed.” Sam smirked, laughing a little more.

“That goes for both of you.” John scowled.

The smug look dropped from his face. “What?”

“Are you having trouble hearing me?” 

They stayed quiet. 

John slammed the brakes, squealing to a stop in the middle of the road. “Get out of the car.”

The two boys hesitated, then hurried to gather up their stuff. 

“Come on, this isn’t a parking lot, I can’t stay here all day.” He eyed the car pulling up behind them in the rear view mirror. “Move your shit.”

“This sucks.” Sam grumbled.

“Dean, we’re gonna have a talk about this when I get home.” He leaned out the window as he warned his increasingly anxious older son.

Sam and Dean stood by the side of the asphalt, choking on the exhaust and dust blown in their faces. The Impala sped off into the distance, and as their father’s face disappeared from the small side mirror, the next car sped by without a care.

“Nice going, buzz-kill.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Don’t act like you didn’t play a part in that.” Dean rolled his eyes right back.

“Did not.”

“Did- you know what? We’re gonna be late. We’ve gotta haul ass if we’re gonna get there on time.”

“Alright, fine.” Sam followed him as they walked down the side of the road. “But seriously, way to go.”

“This isn’t all my fault, okay?”

“It’s like 90% your fault.”

“Closer to 60.”

“80?”

“Try 75.”

“Fine. 85.”

“Yeah- wait.”

“You can’t take it back now, it’s 85% your fault, and 85% your problem now.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”


	3. Milk Kid (or Something Stupid)

Dean sat in the back of the cafeteria, glaring at his food. Normally, he spent lunch in detention, or hanging around the hallways. Currently, he should be in lunch detention for something stupid that he’d said or done or whatever it was, but he was determined to keep an eye on Sam while he ate. 

“If the kid’s got issues eating or whatever, watching him could tell me something,” Dean had thought to himself earlier that day. “Anything.”

He picked up a soggy chicken nugget and bit into it, grimacing when he tasted more cardboard than chicken. He spit it out into his hand and put it back onto the plastic tray. He set the nuggets aside, giving up on the square of the tray that was swimming in watery ketchup. He opened the milk carton, and looked inside. Dean coughed and gagged at the revolting smell of sour milk. He hesitantly tipped the carton over, then all the way upside-down, and felt his face contort with horror and concern when nothing poured out. 

“That shit’s like a Dairy Queen blizzard,” he whispered. 

A few drips of milk splashed onto the red tray, then a thick glob of curdled milk fell out. The chunks made a sickening splat as they hit his lunch tray. Dean gagged again and poked it with a straw. 

“Now I get why the kid won’t eat lunch.” He pushed the tray across the empty lunch table. “That’s disgusting.” 

Some kids from the table in front of him had turned around to stare at his lunch with a horrified fascination. Dean looked up from his tray and across the room to Sam, who was taking his tray and walking out of the cafeteria. Dean got up and walked around the edge of the tables, following Sam with his eyes. 

Suddenly a hand reached out and yanked Dean by his jacket, pulling him down onto the bench.

“Abby, is this the guy you were talking about?” The sing-song voice of the girl who grabbed him taunted.

“Jesus Christ, Emma, you can’t just grab random guys when they walk by, that’s not cool!” Abigail put her head in her hands. “Sorry, Dean.”

“It’s fine.” He watched Abigail pick at her lunch, poking at the mystery meat, which looked like it was made of anything but meat. “So, what’s up with the milk at this school. Mine was chunky.”

“Nobody drinks the milk, new kid,” Emmasaid, “It’s too gross. Even if you wanted to have it, you’d have to chew.”

“Ugh,” Dean shuddered. “It should be illegal to serve that.”

“It probably is, but we’re all used to it by now.” Abigail shrugged. “I know at least two kids who are like, calcium deficient because they’re expected to get that out of school lunches.”

“In seventh grade I found a piece of glass in my hotdog and I’ve packed myself lunch ever since.” Emma pulled out a brown paper bag. “And this conversation is making me lose my appetite. So let’s talk about something else: did Abby tell you she likes you?”

“Emma! I don’t!” Abigail smacked her friend’s hand playfully. 

“Are you sure? Who wouldn’t?” Emma looked back at Dean.

“He has a girlfriend.” Abby kicked him under the table, trying to give him a signal to play along. 

Dean bit back a little noise of pain. “Yeah, I do, and uh, I think I see her waving me over. I should go.” 

“Yeah, you should go.” Abigail shooed him. 

“Bye, Abby.” He stood up. “It’s nice to meet you, Emma.”

As Dean left the cafeteria, he heard the two girls bickering, “He’s only been here two weeks, you don’t have to scare him away from the cafeteria already.”

Emma pointed to Abigail’s milk carton. “It’s for his own good. Don’t let him chew his milk for the rest of the year.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked through the desolate hallway. Where would Sam even go? Dean walked up and down the hall, looking in the windows of empty classrooms. He sighed and gave up, pushing open the bathroom door with his shoulder. A wet wad of toilet paper stuck to the ceiling dripped down onto his shoulder. Dean heard someone retching in the second stall down, and his heart lurched with panic, thinking it was Sam. He silently stepped closer, checking under the door, but didn’t see anyone’s feet. He pushed on the door, which was unlocked, and saw Sam sitting with his feet tucked up on the toilet, gagging at the stench of the rotted milk in his lunch. 

Dean leaned on the side of the stall, panic fading. “I’ve learned not to trust the lunches here.” 

Sam shifted to look at him in surprise, balancing the lunch tray on his knees. “That’s got to be a health code violation.”

Sam held up the carton for Dean to see.

“Probably.” Dean grimaced and took the carton from Sam’s extended arms and dropped it in the toilet of the next stall. “But so is this.”

“There’s trash cans in here, you know.” Sam set his lunch tray on the grimy, suspiciously slippery tiles. 

“I’m sure you’re familiar with this bathroom,” Dean said in an almost accusatory tone, “How long have you been sneaking off here?”

“Almost every day since we came here,” Sam admitted. 

“Why eat in this shithole? Do you want to spend your lunch smelling like piss and Axe body spray?” Dean hopped up and stood on the seat of the next stall, leaning over to look into Sam’s. 

“I worried I’ll projectile vomit milk chunks all over the cafeteria and then we’ll move, so they’ll only know me as ‘milk kid’ or something stupid.” Sam said sardonically and rolled his eyes, avoiding a serious answer. 

“That’s a pretty badass reputation.” Dean nodded. “So, are you gonna eat your chicken nuggets?”

“Uh, I dunno.” 

Dean jumped down and reached under the stall, grabbing one and dropping it in the toilet with the milk. “Mmm, tasty. You should eat some.”

“I can tell you put it in the toilet.” He laughed. 

“What? No.”

“I heard it splash.”

“You’re crazy. There wasn’t any splash.”

“Don’t take my chicken nuggets if you won’t eat them.”

He poked his head around the corner. “If you want ‘em so much, why don’t you eat ‘em?”

“Fine.” Sam swallowed nervously. 

“Fine.” Dean grinned. 

“Fine.”

“You said fine already.”

“I know.” He picked up a nugget off his tray, staring at it with apprehension. 

He bit into it and cringed when it stuck to his gums with a rubbery consistency. Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

“Dude, you really don’t have to eat it.” He pushed the lunch tray aside with his foot. “It’s totally nasty.”

Sam stood up and spit out the chicken into the toilet. “Thanks.”

“So-“ He flashed a grin and tried to uplift hid brother’s mood again. “Dare me to flush the milk carton?”

“No, why would you-“

“Gosh, Sam, always making me do these crazy things.” He shrugged and slid into the stall. “I guess I’ll do it!”

“I’m not being held responsible if you ruin the bathroom. You’ll clog the toilet-“

“I’m doing it!” Dean kicked the handle back and watched as the putrid milk carton swirled in its own chunks, slowly filling the bowl.

“Why?” Sam backed up to the sink.

“I don’t know, but let’s go before we get caught.” Dean smiled broadly, ushering his little brother out of the bathroom. 

They ran down the hall and rounded the corner before Sam fell behind, out of breath. Dean leaned up against the red lockers in the deserted hall. 

“Dude!” Sam threw up his hands, sending the sleeves of his oversized flannel sliding down to his elbows. 

“It was funny, and it’ll be fine.” Dean shrugged. “The power of school toilets are stronger than you think.” 

Sam pushed his sleeves back down over his wrists with an exasperated sigh.

“Do you remember when we lived in Connecticut last year?” He shoved his hands in his jacket. “I was dating this girl, and when I broke up with her, she was so mad that she flushed my underwear down the toilet in the girls bathroom, and ended up flushing her English notebook and her scrunchie too.”

Sam glared at him for a second, then cracked a little smile. “How’d she get your underwear?”

“Well you see,” Dean put his arm around Sam’s shoulder and walked down the hall with him. “When you get older, you’re gonna start having urges-“ 

“I know where this is going. Gross.” Sam pushed him away with a laugh. 

He chased after his brother playfully, speaking louder. “You’re going to want to start taking off your clothes and-“

“Ughhh...”

“You’ll want to touch each other in very private areas and-“

“Ew!” Sam giggled and dodged him

“It’s all natural! It’s nothing to be ashamed of!” They ran down the halls, earning glares from teachers. 

The bell rang, and they ran back for their backpacks, then parted ways to go to their classes. Dean sat in the back of his history class when the announcements buzzed on. 

The monotonous voices of the student announcers droned on. “Good afternoon, Madison High School, may we have your attention please. My name is Julia Turner-“

“And I’m Blake Maxwell-“

“From you Associate Student Body class. These are the announcements for Tuesday, December 9th, 1997.”

Dean tuned out for the rest of the announcements, staring deep into the eyes of the Benjamin Franklin poster, until the very end. 

“And a reminder to students: the boys toilets by the cafeteria will be closed, due to being clogged by milk. You heard me, milk. What kind of crazy motherf-“

“Blake, you weren’t supposed to tell them that.” Julia whispered. 

“Oh sh-“

A few seconds of dead air and fumbling noises on the loudspeakers.

“Have a great day MHS, and go Tigers!” Julia abruptly ended the announcement, leaving his history class in confusion.

“Milk? How can that clog a toilet?” The stoner kid sitting next to him said. “I thought milk was liquid.”

“Me too, man.” Dean shrugged, a smug smile creeping across his face as he watched the bewildered mutterings spread through the class. 

* * *

Sam looked into the mirror of the cramped little motel bathroom. Stupid Dean and his stupid pranks. He bet that Dean would start making him sit in the cafeteria instead of his usual spot, and would make him eat all his food, and people would stare, and the thought of it made Sam sick with anxiety. He felt literally sick to his stomach just thinking about it. He pinched at his stomach and pulled at the skin.

“You’re not good enough,” He whispered to himself. “Dad doesn’t want you to hunt because you’re too fucking fat.”

Fourteen is old enough to be mad at your body, right? Sam swung his arms. It just wasn’t good enough. 

“Worthless piece of shit body.” Sam wrapped his hand around his wrist. 

His dull, dry, shaggy hair hung in front of his face. Sam stretched back his shoulders to see his collarbones. His cheekbones poked out from his face, giving him a ragged, almost skeleton-like appearance that nobody, least of all Sam, seemed to notice or care about. 

“At this rate, I won’t ever get to hunt with Dad and Dean.” Sam sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, sinking to the floor. 

Hunger stabbed at his stomach, making him groan with pain. The green shag rug on the bathroom floor was no help to avoid the wave of nausea. 

* * *

Dean sauntered into the library, slipping “How to Win Friends and Influence People” into the return box. He picked out a new self-help book, a few medical books, and a book called “Diet or Disorder: When To Worry About Your Daughter.”

He set them down in front of Abby, who greeted him with a smile. 

“Hey, you’re back.” She propped her elbows on the desk.

“I’m hoping I don’t have any overdue books, just needed to check out these.” He put his hand on the stack. 

“Yeah, sure.” She looked down at the books, then back at him. “Sorry about Emma, she’s a lot.”

“Yeah, it’s fine, I’ve met people a lot crazier than her.” He smiled.

“So, I don’t know if I asked, but where are you from before you moved here?” 

“Kansas. But we move around a lot.” Dean chewed his lip. “I won’t be here much longer, I guess.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Better return these before you go, right?”

“Yeah.” He moved his hand to lean on the desk. “I’ll be done with them soon, I hope.”

She nodded sadly, then put on a bright smile again. “So, did you hear about the boys bathroom?”

“Hear? Abby, I was there.” Dean leaned in with a devilish grin. 

“That was you?” She whispered with excited trepidation. “How’d you do it?”

“Three steps:” He held up his fingers. “Milk. Toilet. Flush. Congratulations, you’re now officially a vandal and public enemy number one of whatever backwater burg your dad dragged you to this month.”

“Wow. Are people gonna start calling you ‘milk kid’ or something?” She giggled. 

“I hope not.” He rolled his eyes. “Let’s keep this between us two, m’kay?”

“Oh sure, Dean.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “I work in the library, I can keep quiet, it’s part of the job.”

She picked up his books and checked them out, then looked up at him. 

“You know, I shouldn’t say this, but I’m starting to get worried about your little sister.” She looked through the books. “It’s not my place to ask, but is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine.” Dean started shoving books in his backpack. “I’m sure I’m just worrying over nothing. For her, it’s all a part of growing up, I guess.”

He swung the bag onto his shoulder, feeling that icy sickness in his stomach that told him that his “little sister” probably wasn’t okay. If Sammy starved to death and Dean did nothing, who’s fault was that?


	4. Baywatch, Cooking Shows, Cold Pizza, and Other Things That Make Me Want to Kill Myself

“I’ve made a French vanilla creme reduction served on a pound cake with-“ Click.

“Prepare a vinaigrette sauce of-“ Click.

“-and cook on 350-“ Click.

“This dish is raw! Why can’t you-“ Click.

“-if you can’t make your own, store bought is fine.“ Click.

Sam clicked through the channels then threw down the remote. “There’s too many cooking channels! Why can’t you just have one? Is this what all channels are these days?”

He felt sick. He switched to the next channel, but it was on an episode of Baywatch. He glared at the crappy little TV screen with muscular, slim, not chubby actors running around the beach, then at himself, watching TV in a massive T-shirt he picked out specifically to hide his body. He flicked through a few more channels, stopping on a rerun of Sabrina the Teenaged Witch. He laid down on the bed, looking up at the TV. 

“Too bad Dad would probably kill her,” he mumbled.

Dean looked up from his “textbook.” Sam figured it was probably a Playboy or Busty Asian Beauties stuck into a random, scholarly-looking book.

“Hey, I like Baywatch.” He protested.

“No, you like when girls in swimsuits run in slow motion.” Sam turned back to the screen. 

“Actually, I find the plot is very compelling,” He snorted. 

“The plot? Is that the new slang for tits?” Sam stuck his tongue out childishly.

“You’re too young to swear.” Dean shook his head. 

“I don’t give a damn, and I have the remote.” Sam waved it up for Dean to see. “You’re not even watching, go back to your centerfold.”

“It’s not porn, go back to your Disney channel, kiddo.” Dean leaned over to hide the book. 

“Then what is it?” Sam sat up.

He grumbled, “Nothing, piss off.” 

“It’s porn, isn’t it?”

“No.” Dean hid the cover of “Diet or Disorder.”

“If I tell dad, what’s he gonna do?” Sam ignored the television and hopped onto Dean’s bed.

Dean glared “You’ve somehow gotten more and more childish as you get older.”

Sam smirked. “What’ll happen?”

“What’ll happen when I tell him you were swearing?”

“He doesn’t care.”

“Exactly. This family shares Playboy like most families share... I dunno, whatever families should share.”

Sam rolled off the bed. “I’m bored.”

“Go watch Disney channel like you wanted to.”

“Nah, I’m bored of it.”

“Then put on Baywatch.”

“Eh.” He shrugged and turned off the “Haven’t you got homework?”

“Finished.”

“Do you have anything to do?”

“No.”

“Wanna go get something to eat? I’m starving.” Dean threw down his book. 

Sam gritted his teeth. Oh,  you’re starving. “No thanks.”

They sat in an empty silence. 

“When does Dad get home?” He inquired.

“I don’t know.” Dean sighed. “He’s been taking forever on this hunt. He should call in a few days.”

“Ugh.” Sam flopped down on the bed. “What are you reading, really?”

“A book.”

“Wow, detailed.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“A self help book. I’m trying to ‘better myself’ you know?” 

“Hm. Sounds fake.” He flopped over and faced his brother. “But then again... My guess is that you like the girl who works at the library, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean let his feet hang off the bed. “She’s cute, but too good. Pure, you know?”

“You mean she’s a virgin?”

“No- Well- I don’t know, that’s weird.” Dean shook his head. 

Sam laughed, “It’s totally natural! You’re getting older, you’ll start to get sexual urges, and want to-“

“Now I get why you hate that.” He shuddered. “What I mean is that she’s all innocent and crap, and I’m- me, you know? I feel like I’d corrupt her or taint her or something. She must think I’m better than who I am, and when we leave and show her I’m such an asshole, it’ll break her heart.”

“She likes you?” Sam tilted his head.

“No, which is weird. Maybe she’s to innocent for a crush. I bet she’s got some chastity thing, too.” Dean sat up and shook his head. “I can’t be waiting til marriage if I won’t be here til our two week anniversary, you know?”

Sam nodded bleakly. 

“So what’s new with you?” He changed the subject to focus on Sam.

“Not much.” He sighed. 

“Really? It seems like something’s bothering you lately,” He insisted. “You’ve been a bit off.”

“I’m fine,” Sam snapped. 

“Alright, if you say so.” Dean rolled his eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” When he folded his arms, Sam’s collar bones protruded sharply, giving his brother a shocking pang of fear. 

Dean’s stomach churned and the bookmarked pages in health textbooks fluttered through his mind. “I just feel like there’s something you’re not telling me, and I can tell you’re upset.”

“I’m fine.” He stood up and walked to the door of their motel room. “I’m just tired and bored.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going for a jog.” He stepped out and slammed the door behind him before Dean could even get another word out. 

“Wha-“ He sputtered, “I fucked up, didn’t I? I really fucked up.” 

Out the window, he could see Sam jogging around the parking lot, stopping for breath every couple doors he passed. He leaned on someone’s car and caught his breath, then took off again. Dean opened the door and felt the brisk December air blowing by, hinting at snow. 

He muttered to himself, picking up his leather jacket, “Jesus, that kid is crazy to be out there without a coat.”

He picked up a flannel shirt off the floor and sniffed it, then, deeming it clean enough, tucked it under his arm and walked across the parking lot. His brother kept running slowly over the asphalt. 

“Hey, I thought you’d be cold.” Dean held out the wrinkled and crumpled shirt. 

“I’m okay,” he was visibly shivering, despite the temperature being only mildly cold. “Plus, cold weather burns more calories.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true, but you can still get frostbite, so you can lose weight by cutting off a toe or two. Maybe a leg if you’re really going for drastic weight loss” 

“I won’t get frostbite, I’m not cold.” 

“Just take the shirt. I’m making an effort not to be a dick,” He threw it at his brother. “That’s very rare.”

“Thanks,” Sam mumbled and pulled it over the baggy shirt.

The oversized flannel brushed the top of his knees when he walked, it’s sleeves hung over the tips of his fingers, and it flapped out like a cape if he held his arms out. It gave him the appearance of a small child in his father’s clothes, hanging off him like it was draped over a small man made of sticks instead of muscle and bone. The two of them strolled back to their room, neither seeing the guilt and worry in each other’s eyes.

* * *

Sam stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the sick, swirling pit of sadness welling in his stomach. It felt like there was an icy hand that kept digging its nails into his guts, burning and freezing his body from the inside to the outside. They had moved again, without a day’s warning. Dean had held them up a whole half hour returning his library books, while Sam and his Dad sat in the car, entirely silent. When Dean got back in the car, Sam swore he could hear him sniffling, stifling back a little sob, but he wasn’t sure. John never even looked at his him, he was already upset they had waited so long. He didn’t have any friends at that school, but he still felt sad about leaving. He seemed to feel sad about a lot lately.

Sam ran his hand through his shaggy hair, shaking off the hair that had fallen out. He pulled up his shirt, pinching at the skin on his ribs. His hips jutted out shockingly, and his cheekbones had become so pronounced, they looked sharp enough to cut his spider-like fingers on. It was far from the gaunt and aesthetically pleasing look he wished he could be. It was too much, yet Sam still felt chubby. His stomach hated him as much as he did. It growled in protest every so often, sometimes even making Sam double over with the painful hunger pangs. When they moved, he had decided to cut himself off completely until he felt happy. No more snacks to take the edge off, no more late-night binges. Cold turkey. No cheat days. It was the best thing he could do for himself. What would he do if Dad didn’t let him hunt? What would he do if he stayed chubby? 

“Kill myself.” He let slip, shocking even himself. “No, no, no, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”

He stared at his ghostlike reflection. 

“Would I?”

He looked at his wrists, feeling unsatisfied with how the bone made it look so much thicker than it should. It would be so easy, discreet, unnoticeable. Just a little more sneaking around and lying to Dean until he just died.

“I can’t start thinking like that.” Sam forced the morbid thought out of his mind, but the feeling lingered, itching to be heard from the back of his brain. “I don’t have the courage in the first place.”

It screamed out at him, begging to be acted on. 

“But it would be so easy,” the thought shouted as he tried to push it to the back of his head, “Easiest thing in your life, with all these guns lying around. Steal Dean’s razor, if you’re feeling subtle.” 

“No,” he whispered, “I can’t- I- I just can’t do that to him.”

“Just think, it would be easier than starving to death and a hell of a lot easier than living.” The thought cackled cruelly in his head, shoving its way back to his mind. It’s face seemed to reflect back at him in the mirror, sicker and sadder. “I can think of a million ways to kick the bucket. Hang yourself, take a few more aspirin than the label says you should, find a roof and jump. I’m sure you could find something, Sammy. Jump in front of a fucking car! A school bus! Your Dad’s car, maybe! He loves the car more than he loves you, doesn’t he? If you fail, he’d probably kill you for denting the car. What fun!”

The thought continued, bounding from corner to corner of his mind, recounting increasingly gory ways for him to die. 

“Are you gonna leave a note? Tell off your dad one last time? If you drown yourself, maybe get it laminated. Real formal.”

“Shut up!” Sam silently hissed at the mirror, pounding his fist on the sink. 

“Hey, you want dinner? I’m thinking leftover pizza.” Dean shouted at the bathroom door. 

“I’m okay, I’m not really hungry,” Sam shouted back tremulously, his arms shaking as he looked at himself in horror. 

Dean grumbled, flopping face-down on his new creaky motel bed. He almost missed the chunky milk of Madison High. Almost. He wished he still had his books. He thought back on his last day with sadness and shame. 

He saw his Dad’s car outside, grabbed his backpack and sprinted out of his math class. He ran to the library and hoped he’d catch Abigail. He turned in his books like nothing was wrong, then when he stopped by Abby’s desk, somehow he let it all spill out. Not everything, obviously he couldn’t tell her about hunting, but he blurted out that his dad was picking him up, they were going back to the motel they lived in, and that he’d never see her again. 

He made the same mistakes he made with Amanda Heckerling in Indiana, and probably a dozen other friends and girlfriends. He embarrassingly overshared, bluntly and emotionally. Abigail reacted by bursting into tears, almost immediately. He led her out into the hall, where she cried about how she was worried for his imaginary little sister, and how she wished they could have known each other better, and how much she wanted to help him. 

He sat and talked with her until she stopped crying, knowing each minute would make his dad angrier and angrier. After a while, she fell silent, holding onto his jacket sleeve. Dean took a deep breath, and told her the truth. He didn’t have a sister, he had a brother he worried about all the time, he was homeless, he liked her a lot but would remember her as a friend, and if he knew he was staying longer, he’d have asked her out one day. She cried even harder.

Dean had done it. He told her the truth and it broke her heart. 

He kissed her tear-stained cheek and ran off down the hallway, hating himself more than ever. He shouldn’t get attached to people he won’t get to see again. He shouldn’t tell them what he feels. He was selfish to lead her on and then leave her in the hall, crying by herself. He should’ve known. He should’ve shut up.

By the time he reached the school parking lot, tears had started forming in his eyes. He wiped them away and strutted towards the car, acting like nothing had happened. As his father pulled away from the school, he saw Abby standing in the door, looking forlorn. Dean choked back a quiet sob, then turned his back on the school as it faded into the rear view mirror. 

He couldn’t waste time crying like a baby over some girl he’ll never see again. Winchester men don’t cry. He was in a new town, he was the only one here who knew how he felt about Abby. It didn’t matter anymore, he could forget it all. He opened the fridge and took out a slice of cold pizza. He threw himself onto the bed, staring at the ceiling while he ate. Sam finally left the bathroom, looking pale and sweaty. 

“Want some?” Dean offered, but was turned down with a shake of Sam’s head. “Alright, suit yourself.” 

Sam glared at the box of pizza, holding his stomach. It pleaded for food, but he had vowed to not eat. He might have caved if it were a salad or something healthy, so he mentally thanked Dean for picking junk food. He laid down on his bed, staring at the wall. He sat there for an hour, blankly staring at the chipped white paint. Dean switched off the light and went to bed without a word. But Sam didn’t have the energy to even pull the covers over himself. He lay there shivering as headlights from the highway shone through the window, casting his shadow onto the wall. His frame was thin and angular, his bony shoulder sticking out sharply, silhouetted by the cars roaring past. He didn’t even need a mirror to see how frail he’d become. His stomach seemed to scream at him from inside, and he just felt like dying. He sat up silently, looking over at Dean, who was now asleep. 

He padded over to the bathroom. The lights buzzed and flickered on, casting a harsh greenish glow around the bathroom. He picked up Dean’s razor, resting on the side of the sink. He rolled it around his fingertips, sitting down in the shower. The plastic shower floor was grimy, wet, down right uncomfortable, but he didn’t care. He stared at the stupid razor, sighed, and went to go put it back. His bare feet were numb from the cold floor.

“Dean hates when I touch his stuff,” he whispered to himself. “I can’t do this to him, anyways.” 

Sam looked in the mirror, feeling anxiety and shame welling up in his throat. His stomach still howled, his chest still ached, and the icy hand sunk it’s frigid nails into his heart. He felt so cold, waiting for the tear slipping from the corner of his eye to freeze into a star.


	5. “Food Poisoning”

Dean woke up panicked, as if from a nightmare. In reality, he hadn’t dreamt, and his nightmare was one that was in the waking world. Sam’s bed was empty, untouched, and horrible sounds of coughing and gagging came from the bathroom. He rolled out of his bed, tripping over sheets, to get to the bathroom. He flung open the door, finding his brother on the floor. 

“Sammy!” Dean dropped to his knees, picking his brother up, feeling how terrifyingly light he was. “What the hell is going on?” 

“I’m okay,” he pushed away, sitting back on the pink tile bathroom floor. “I’m just sick.”

Sam tried to push himself off the floor, but then fell and clutched the porcelain bowl. He leaned over to the toilet, heaving the contents of his stomach into the bowl. It wasn’t much at all.

Dean rubbed his back, feeling his spine sharply poking out. 

He sat back up, flushed the toilet, wiped his mouth and mumbled, “I think it’s food poisoning.”

Dean kneeled on the cramped bathroom floor next to Sam, brushing his hair away from his eyes. He noticed the face like a skeleton dipped in wax, the dark circles under his eyes, and the hollow sadness behind them. 

“Food poisoning?” He sighed softly. “From what food?”

Sam looked at his lap, suppressing another rumble of his stomach. 

“I know you haven’t been eating.” Dean stood up, picking up a bath towel. 

Sam stayed silent. 

“You couldn’t have hid that forever.” He ran it under the hot water from the sink, which ended up cold anyways. 

Sam still sat on the floor, slouching over, a sad sack of bones in a motel bathroom. Had his eyes not moved, Dean would’ve thought his brother was already dead. He felt the tight hand of worry find a grip around his heart.

“Are you gonna ignore me, or are you too nauseous to talk?” He crouched down, dripping washcloth in hand. 

Still silent. And then, like an old door creaking open after years of being chained shut, he spoke. 

“I didn’t make myself do it.” He mumbled. 

Dean sat down, listening. 

“I didn’t make myself puke,” He kept a hand firmly clutched to the toilet seat. “If you’re wondering.” 

He fell silent again as Dean started wiping his brother’s face off with the towel. “Why aren’t you eating?” 

Sam pushed the towel away. “Are you mad at me?”

He dropped it in the sink. “No, I’m not. I’m really upset that you wouldn’t talk to me, and I’m upset that you’re not eating.” 

“That’s what being mad is.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Not really.” Dean held up his brother’s fragile wrist as if he were made of glass. Sam flinched. “So are you going to tell me why you won’t eat?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I’m not eating at all.”

“Still.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Dean’s eyes were heavy with sadness when he looked at how frail his brother had gotten. 

“I had coffee with milk today.” He offered. 

“That’s not even food. You shouldn’t even drink coffee.” 

“Alright. Food.” Sam mumbled to his lap. “The last time I ate was dinner.”

“Dinner on what day?” He knew Sam hadn’t eaten tonight. 

“Tuesday.” He sighed.

Dean rubbed his palms in his eyes. “That was last week! A whole six days.” 

“It’s not that bad!” Sam tucked his arms close to his ribcage. “I’ve gone longer, and I’ve been fine. After a while, you stop feeling hungry.”

“Longer? That’s not fine! You’re not fine!” Dean snapped, dropping his voice when he saw how Sam flinched. “You have an eating disorder, Sammy.”

He snorted. “Look, I’m not some- some- Dean, I’m not a girl. I don’t want to look like a model or whatever. You’re joking, right?”

“Guys can have eating disorders too,” He said softly, “That crap can happen to anybody. I just want to know why you do that to yourself.”

He sighed. “I don’t want to keep looking like some chubby nine-year-old. Dad won’t take me seriously, he won’t let me hunt, he treats me like a baby. He might take me seriously if I didn’t look like I was in third grade.”

“You don’t.”

“Well, obviously.” Sam pulled at the skin on his face. “Dad still doesn’t take me seriously, no matter how hard I work, no matter how skinny I was. I thought it just wasn’t enough, so I cut myself off again.” 

Dean rubbed his face, with a shamed sigh. How had he let it get this bad?

“But I don’t get to choose where I live, when we move, what I do, the kind of life I want to live, anything. I don’t have the option to be normal, so at least I can look normal too, instead of looking like a baby. What I eat is the only thing in my life I can control.” Sam held his stomach, feeling another rumble of pain. “This ‘disorder’ is the part of myself I have power over.”

“Starving yourself ain’t normal.” Dean rubbed his back. “And I hate to break it to you, but the disorder controls you, not the other way around.” 

“I’m the one who decides to stop eating, nobody else. I’m in control.” Sam pushed him away weakly. 

“You don’t choose what you wear, what you eat, when you sleep, when you run, how you feel, what you watch on TV. You can’t even click through a cooking channel without looking like you're conflicted between puking or smashing the TV.” Dean pleaded, “Don’t you want control?”

“I do, but I can’t!” Sam hung his head, his whole body arching over into a defeated slump. “I don’t know how to stop. Every time I eat, I hate myself so much for it. I hate myself and I don’t want to be here! I’m miserable and I just want out! I don’t know if I want out of my- uh, my eating disorder or my life.” 

Dean picked at the rug, lost for an answer while his eyes misted over. 

“I don’t want to be like this.” Sam’s voice dripped with pain as he leaned his forehead on the toilet. “I just can’t see a way out.”

“Sammy, no.” Dean’s bottom lip twitched as he strangled a sob. “Offing yourself isn’t an easy way out.” 

“I’m not gonna.” Sam shook his head, chewing his bottom lip. “But I might have. It’s easy enough for me.”

“Don’t say that.” He ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not fucking easy, Sam, it’s dying. It’s going and leaving us like Mom did, and it doesn’t solve anything.”

He let the weight of the conversation sink into the loaded silence. 

“Sammy, you’ve got a life ahead of you. I’m failing high school, I’ll probably drop out, but you have time to change yourself. If you keep acting like you do now and you don’t change, then you’ll wind up like me, or worse, or even dead.” Dean chuckled weakly, still feeling tears slowly leaking from the corner of his eyes. 

Sam wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his head on them. “I just wanna be okay, but every day I feel like dying.”

“Being dead would suck more than being alive, cause you’d be a ghost, and dad would have to burn your bones.” He wrapped his arm around his brother’s bony shoulders. “And I’d miss you.”

Sam let his head rest on Dean’s shoulder. “You would?”

“Of course I would, there’s no question about it. I’d never get over it.” Dean leaned against the sink. “Every day, I’d try and bring you back.”

“You can’t bring people back from the dead.” Sam yawned a little, slumping into Dean’s chest. 

“I’d do it anyway. It’s my job to take care of you, even if you die.” He watched as his little brother’s breathing slowed, falling asleep on the bathroom floor. 

Dean scooped him up, still shocked by the feathery lightness of his emaciated brother. He carried Sammy over to his bed and tucked him in. His brother looked peaceful, but in the hauntingly peaceful way of someone who died in their sleep. Dean rolled him over onto his side, because it was far too easy to picture Sam lying in a coffin when he laid like that.Sammy wouldn’t have a proper coffin, he’d be burned, but the image burned itself into Dean’s brain. He sat on his own bed, facing away from his brother as he thought. 

“Sammy wanted to kill himself, I didn’t notice. Sammy didn’t eat all week, I didn’t notice. I’m supposed to look out for him, but I barely even looked at him. He’s all skin and bones. He’s dying.” Dean whispered to the window facing the highway. “How could I have been so stupid?”

Cars zipped past, their headlights roaming across the blank wall behind Sam. The darkness coiled it’s shadows over the furniture, up the bed, spreading from the corners of the room to swallow Dean whole. He gasped for breath each time the headlights shone over his face, only to be pushed back under to drown in the midnight shadow. Under the blankets, you could still see Sam’s skeletal frame. 

“How could I have been so blind?” Dean gasped again, feeling the tears creep up to his eyes again.

He was plunged into darkness again, and his whole body shook with sobs. He wiped it away. He’d had enough of crying, but the tears didn’t seem to be finished with him. Dean relented, stifling the howls into whimpers, tears silently rolling down his face. They shimmered on his skin when they caught the gleam of a pair of headlights. After a few minutes, he took in a trembling breath, then let it out again. In and out, with the lights of the highway. He wiped his face, stood up and grabbed the duffel bag of his stuff. He picked up the sawed off shotgun of rock salt, and sat down on the end of Sam’s bed, facing the door. He looked at his baby brother, peacefully sleeping, for once. His face was sunken and sickly, his hair was thin and brittle like straw, his arms were thin and spindly like twigs, and he shivered under the pile of blankets. Dean pulled off his own sheets, pilling them over Sam. Starvation had left its mark on him, and Dean felt that same icy fear in his stomach, an aching for simpler times Sam couldn’t even remember. 

He held up the shotgun and watched the cars roaring over the highway like thundering monsters. 

“It’s my job to watch over you,” he said to Sam, guarding him from the unknown monsters outside, or maybe just to make himself feel safe. “I’m gonna take care of you, I’ve got you.”  


* * *

> “Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side- or from his brother. Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.”
> 
> John Winchester’s journal, December 4th, 1983

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot all about this story for a while, but I went back and decided to finally post it, since it’s very personal to me. I kind of put myself in Sam’s shoes for this because I was fucking miserable, but now I realize I’ve had to become Dean for the sake of my friends dealing with the same issue, and in that process I’ve shed a lot of the insecurities that made me so miserable. I’m still pretty fucked, that hasn’t changed, but I won’t wallow in it. Moral of the story? Don’t be a dick to children about body image. Don’t be a dick to children in general. What you say matters and it makes a huge impression on them. Other moral? Don’t let troubled people make morals. We suck at that.


End file.
